


Dear Fellow Traveller

by peacefultyranny



Series: Dear Fellow Traveller (Wereformers AU) [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Gen, Hospitalization, Near Death, Needles, Starvation, Suicidal Thoughts, Underage Drug Use, Werewolf AU, oh this is darker than i thought it was in retrospect, wereformers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 04:59:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3678516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacefultyranny/pseuds/peacefultyranny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Werewolf AU!.......?<br/>Drabble post from tumblr. </p><p>Dear fellow traveller,<br/>underneath the moon<br/>I think I'm growing weary and I'm hoping you'll come soon.</p><p>Drift meets Gasket for the first time! And Ratchet. Too bad it's under really shitty circumstances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dear Fellow Traveller

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: this is written in second-person and may seriously mess with people who have unreality problems, especially regarding the first portion of the fic. Please be careful and read the tags!

The cold, bitter wind cuts through your dirty matted fur easily and your body, weak and drained and scrawny from malnutrition, can only muster a weak tremble in response.You curl up tighter around yourself, thin arms around your knees clutching them close to your chest and thinner clothes draped over your shoulders, too small to fit over your larger furred form. You shouldn’t even be here like this, the wolf in you needs more energy than your already increased metabolism in your normal form, and god help you if a human finds you. 

But snow is streaking down just outside the shelter you’d taken under an overpass, leaving a soft powder covering the ground, and thin as your fur is it’s better than your ratty t-shirt and sweatpants.

You shudder again and drag a clawed hand over your bicep in a weak attempt to warm it up. Your movements seem far slower than they should be; you’re not sure what was in that needle, but it feels like morphine. You hope it was morphine. At least if you starve tonight you won’t feel the pain, and that’s the best you can hope for. That’s the best any young starving werewolf can hope for.

You shiver, eyes drooping closed.

* * *

 

The harsh scent of antiseptic clogs your throat, pulling you from a dead sleep into a coughing fit, and you curl onto your side as you hack and wheeze. Your eyes fly open, but bright white lights and clean white walls blind you for a moment, leaving you floundering, panicked. Then it hits you: hospital.

You  _really_  can’t afford a hospital.

You roll from the bed and stumble as you hit the ground, claws skittering across the smooth flooring, and you realize that you still haven’t shifted back into your human form too late. You flail and catch the side of the bed just in time to prevent your forehead from bouncing off the corner of an end-table, and a high, sharp beeping makes you shout: your hand is smashed squarely on the medical alert button that calls in the nurses.

You manage to make it unsteadily to your feet just as three people come running into the room, all of them human. You bare your teeth at them and shrink back against the edge of the bed, and the one that was clearly a doctor, dark hair slicked back neatly and frown lines despite not being more than his mid-thirties holds his hands up.

“It’s alright,” he says, and your eyes flash between the group of humans to the door, then to the closed window. Is it too much to hope for a groundfloor room? “No one’s gonna hurt you, kid.”

“Yeah right,” you spit, voice cracking in your fear. You shake your head, breath coming in fast and high. “I can’t afford to be here, and you’re gonna hurt me ‘cause-a that,” Or call the cops, and that amounts to the same thing. You’ve met human cops before, and they seem to be able to smell the wolf blood in you easier than normal humans. 

The doctor’s eyes turn sad, and you squeeze your own shut tight and struggle to not cry. Why did you have to end up here? Why couldn’t you have just died in peace? Now everything’s just dragging it out more. “We’re not going to hurt you. This is a charity hospital,” You flinch before the words actually sink in, and then you slowly open your eyes and look up, hope tentatively bubbling in your chest as the doctor continues, “You don’t owe us anything.”

“Oh.” is all you manage, before the adrenaline seems to rush from your body all at once and you collapse in a trembling heap on the floor. The doctor and the two nurses rush over immediately, and you blink blearily at their dim and wavering forms as they carefully pick you up off the ground.

You pass out before they manage to get you back up on the bed.

* * *

 

This time when you wake up you’re anticipating the smell, and it’s actually the sound of dress shoes smartly hitting the ground as the owner approaches your bed that rouses you. You groan and press a hand to your forehead.

“Good, you’re awake,” says the owner of the shoes, and when you open your eyes you recognize him as the doctor from before. He’s looking at a chart, at the foot of your bed, and you squint at him until he finally puts it down and offers you a tight, tired-looking smile. “You’ve got a visitor - the guy who brought you in, in fact.”

You just blink at him, one ear swivelling backwards before re-centring on the human. You’re not sure what to make of that, honestly, both the fact that someone actually rescued you  _and_  also apparently wanted to see you again.

The doctor - Dr Ratchet the namecard clipped to his chest reads, now that your eyes have actually focused properly and you can actually read it - just huffs and waves his hand. “We’ll get some food for you and then let him in, alright?”

You bolt straight up in the bed at the mention of food, ears perked, and lick your canines eagerly; you haven’t had real food in what feels like eons, and hospital food might as well be a five-star meal at the world’s finest restaurant right now.

They end up wheeling in a tray not too long after Dr. Ratchet leaves, and you can honestly say you’ve never been more happy to see ground beef in a bowl in your life. The kitchen staff obviously has no idea what to feed a werewolf while shifted, but you don’t mind, honestly. You don’t even bother with the fork they gave you, but you are thankful that they thought to put some water in a bowl rather than a glass.

You’re in the middle of licking the bowl of ground beef spotless when the sound of the hospital room door closing startles you. You raise your head to see the intruder, licking your chops, and are surprised to see a rather shaggy-looking werewolf with dark fur and bright blue eyes taking a seat on the empty bed beside yours. He looks to be nineteen or so - no more than five years older than you at least - and while his fur isn’t as matted and gross as yours is, it’s definitely pretty filthy. Fed, but probably homeless just like you. Why he’s in his were form is beyond you, but you figure if he found you while in it he probably didn’t want the humans to know what he looked like in both forms.

“Are you the guy who found me?” you ask, voice rasping slightly, and you wonder if it would be considered rude for you to drink from a bowl like a dog while talking to a stranger. You decided that it doesn’t matter anyways - you’re in a hospital, damn it all - and you noisily drink until your throat feels less horrible.

The stranger just chuckles and waits patiently for you to finish. “Yep. Found you curled up under that underpass half dead and had to do something,” the older wolf licks his teeth and scratches at the corner of his jaw before continuing, “I’ve been in a similar position before. Couldn’t just let some poor kid waste away like that. You deserve better.”

You choke in surprise and stare wide-eyed at the wolf - a complete stranger who cared enough to save you and then tell you something like that? You don’t care what the guy wants in return for saving you, it would be worth it for the first kind words you’ve heard since you were seven years old. “Thank you,” you mumble when you finally remember to speak, ducking your head.

The other wolf grins easily and reaches over to ruffle your ears, and you nearly whine happily at the contact. “Of course, kiddo. I’m Gasket, by the way.”

You look up at the easy, comfortable smile and kind gaze of the werewolf and give him a small, genuine smile back. “I’m Drift.”


End file.
